


sunset in my veins

by kblaze2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Kinda?, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), bucky heals, steve heals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7507699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kblaze2/pseuds/kblaze2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky finds the peace T'Challa promised. (Bonus: Steve maybe does too.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sunset in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> this is sort of my cathartic analysis on civil war
> 
> it's so late and it shouldn't be but i abandoned it for a while for literally no reason and when i came back it took me like three seconds to finish it so whoops.
> 
> some elements reflect back on the universe of another work of mine, [but i know this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6862984?view_adult=true), but it is not necessary for you to read it or anything before this.
> 
> unbeta'd.
> 
> title from sophomore slump or comeback of the year by fall out boy.

—

Twice.

Twice, he lost Bucky to the ice.

(Three, technically. But Steve doesn't count his own dive, because he had already lost Bucky by then, hadn't he.)

—

He thinks of the imagery for a moment while he’s sketching, and his chest fills with gratitude for T’Challa.

_"Your friend and my father, they were both victims. If I can help one of them find peace…"_

The white clothes. Loose hair framing his face. The quiet hum that filled the room. It was tranquil. Angelic.

And heartbreaking.

But Steve didn’t fight him. Too worn and too lucky to dare to argue. Besides, the nostalgia of it alone might've killed him.

He told Tony that they needed to keep their right to choose, and that's something that's been stripped away from Bucky for too long. Steve wasn’t going to be a player in that; wouldn’t dare associate himself with the malice that surrounded Bucky for nearly eight decades.

Bucky stands by his choice, and Steve stands by him. Always.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though. Gives justification to the tear that drops itself on the page below him, where he was sketching the curve of what was left of Bucky's arm.

—

He's only felt like this once before. His chest didn’t ache like this even when Bucky fell from the train. Because there, there he had a type of closure. No, the agony consumed his small frame all the same as it does now, clutching at his organs and making his heart heavy.

When Bucky shipped out for Basic, a million lifetimes ago, Steve laid awake, hands clutched in the sheets and staring at the pillow next to him. It smelled like Bucky, and had a dip in it from where his head would rest. But the bed was cold beside him. And Steve didn't know if it'd be inhabited again. If he'd come back. He didn’t know anything but the back of Bucky's head as he slipped out of their apartment that morning, trying not to wake Steve. He did, of course, but Steve hadn’t slept much anyways.

(He can't count the time Bucky shipped out for real, the same arms that hugged him goodbye resting on the waists of those two dames. He can't, because, he hadn’t the time, having shipped himself off to Lehigh the very next second, it seems.)

—

He didn’t have nightmares the last time, though.

—

They rescued the others two days ago, with the assistance of T'Challa. Clint took Scott and Wanda with him to Bed-Stuy; a hole in the wall apartment ready to collapse. It seemed familiar to Clint, though, so Steve didn’t question it. Scott didn't seem too chipper, which is understandable. His family and friends are on the other side of the country. Wanda doesn’t even have a country to return to, her only family ripped apart by six bullets. Steve ached when he left them.

He can't stay in Wakanda. Desperately, he wants to, but he can't take the risk. Not this time. He lingers for a few days, shamelessly walking past the lab where Bucky is. They moved him to the back, more secluded; less eyes on him. Probably for the best, because if he was still on display in the center, almost like an idol, Steve may never stop staring. He always looked up to Buck. Even after all this time he knows he'd train his eyes on him with complete reverence, even asleep.

There are always doctors in the room. Bent over a table, shuffling vials and files, a couple of computers between them that look far more advanced than what Steve has seen at the Triskelion, or the Tower and Compound, for that matter. Tony would like it here, he thinks distantly.

He watches as they check Bucky's vitals, the shadows covering everything but the stump of his arm. Steve's throat feels tight, bile threatening to rise. He — Bucky didn't like to use the arm casually, Steve could tell from the week they spent together. He would catch Bucky glancing at it every now and then in their few moments to rest, either with contempt or consideration; Steve knows even though it was given to him without consent, to be used for all the wrong reasons, Bucky still appreciated the arm. It was a part of him, the him now, that lived in studio apartment in a foreign country, blending into a peaceful civilian life as much as possible.

He rubs aimlessly at his own left shoulder, thinking that Bucky has lost too much for a world that didn't deserve it. Steve gave up a lot, too, but that's where they're different. Steve let it be taken from him but Bucky didn’t have a say in the matter.

Twice, Bucky's arm was taken from him.

"Do not worry," T'Challa says from behind him. He comes to Steve's side, hands clasped behind his back. He hasn’t been coronated, not yet, but looks as regal as ever. "We are studying the metals of the arm and its reaction with Vibranium. We will fix him with another arm, soon."

Steve nods, letting his hand drop. He looks at Bucky again, a doctor puttering around him, before sliding his gaze away.

"You are leaving," T'Challa says. It's not a question.

"Yes," Steve confirms. "I have… things to take care of. I'd like to stay, but —" He glances at Bucky's still frame again before turning to face T'Challa. "It wouldn't be too wise, would it?"

T'Challa's eyes project benevolence, his head nodding ever so slightly. He looks at Steve with understanding. "We will keep an eye on him, do not fret. He is in safe hands. We will send word to you if there are any breakthroughs, before proceeding."

Steve nods again, attempting a smile, but his mouth falters at the curve. He looks away as his chest contracts on him, the backs of his eyes hot.

"Barnes…" T'Challa starts, his eyes flicking between Bucky and Steve. "He means a great deal to you, yes?"

Steve's back almost straightens, defenses high, because he can hear the implications in T'Challa's words, but the inflection is nothing but observatory; kind. "He was all I had. We lived in each other's pockets, even before my mother died. And then came the war, and I was grateful to have him by my side again, even under the circumstances. And now…" Steve shakes his head, "He's all I have left." He doesn’t very much elaborate, but T'Challa seems to sense his meaning anyways.

His arm finds the back of Steve's neck. "We will bring him back to you."

—

T'Challa gives him a phone, made of Vibranium, no less. Encrypted and only two-way, the sister resting in his tunic pocket. (Steve is very aware of the burner phone pressing against his chest, the only phone with its number across the Atlantic.) He also gives Steve a jet, and presses his thumb to Steve's lips before he boards.

—

Sam's waiting for him in Davenport, in a shoddy motel that rests just on the border of Iowa and Illinois. The jet rests in an abandoned barn a few miles away. Sam doesn’t say anything when Steve enters the room and continues into the bathroom. He strips his clothes and steps into the shower, letting the variant water pressure of the spray hit his face. His mind is blank and he stares at a spot of mold in the corner of the tub, losing track of time. His bones feel heavy and his hands feel cold, like they did before the serum rid his body of the anemia. There is an empty spot in his chest, and he doesn’t pretend to not know what — who — it's for. His body is racking with sobs before he even realizes he's crying. He pinches the bridge of his nose, fingernails digging crescents into the corners of his eyes.

There's a knot between his shoulder blades, in that same place where Bucky would knead his knuckles when Steve's scoliosis was particularly bothersome. Even after the serum, when they curled in on each other to sleep on the frozen ground, when they walked behind enemy lines with boots crunching on leaves, when they stood at ease in front of Colonel Phillips, Bucky's hand would still find his way to that spot, worrying needlessly at the muscles and bones under Steve's uniform. Even in his new body, it didn’t feel foreign. Bucky was always familiar. Always home.

And seventy-one years later he still felt — feels — that way. His presence as solid in Steve's life as it was when they didn't have two dimes to rub together, even with the flight risk added in. Even with Bucky under ice again, unconscious and disconnected, Steve feels as tethered to him as ever, even more so. It's still Bucky's name stitched into the veins of his heart.

And he hates that he let him go again. But if they can stay with each other after every time Steve was riddled with a life-threating illness, can find each other in the middle of a war, can come back to each after seventy years, he has no doubt Bucky will be at his side again. He worries about how long he'll have to wait this time, though.

—

They're halfway to Montana, Steve's head against the back of his seat and Sam's hands on the wheel of the pickup they paid for with cash, when Sam asks:

"Why'd you kiss her?"

Steve is thrown off guard, head snapping up. Sam only glances at him out of the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised as he changes lanes. Steve sighs. He doesn’t dare try to deflect; Sam's too smart for that.

"It…it felt like it needed to be done," Steve admits. "We'd been dancing around it for too long, and after everything with SHIELD and Hydra — then finding out at Peggy's funeral, I don’t know. I was calmer than I thought I would be, seeing her there. I was attracted to her, maybe, but after all of this, it waned. After Peggy's funeral, I just kept thinking about her — Peggy, I mean. She was a bombshell, Sam. The first and only woman I ever loved, and I know she felt the same, and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. I was fumbling over my words with her for months and she still found a way to love me. And having her here when I got out of the ice, it was more than I could have asked for.

"The kiss felt more like a goodbye than anything. I know I shouldn’t have used Sharon for that excuse, but I don’t think either of us was really expecting anything to come from it. I mean, it's been two years, Sam. It wasn’t anything romantic, I think. Just needed to be done." He looks over at Sam, who nods his assent.

"And…?" Sam presses, not missing a thing. Steve doesn't mind, really. It's not hard to see Sam already knows what Steve's not saying, and there's nothing uncomfortable between them in regards to it.

"Bucky," Steve exhales, palms flat on his thighs.

"Bucky," Sam agrees, taking an exit.

"I've loved him all my life. He's been there for everything, and then he was gone. God, that was the worst week of my life, Sam. And then I — well. When I woke up, I could still see him falling, even before I realized where I was. And that's all I could think about for months. That I somehow got to live, and he was gone and decayed at the bottom of a mountain pass. Those nightmares blended with the Chitauri ones at one point and I don’t think I slept for a solid six months. It got better when Fury gave me missions to go on, and I could punch it all out, but it wasn’t the same. I kept seeing things Buck would like — he was real into science fiction, always talking about the future and how great it would be. And all I kept thinking about was how disappointing it was — the future. And then I was glad he wasn’t here, so he didn’t have to see what we'd become. But then I realized, he'd find joy in it anyways, just because it was new. I could see the dumb smile on his face, and that shine in his eyes when he got excited. And I drew everything I thought he would like, and it — it hurt. Living without him hurt. The longest I'd ever gone without him were those ten weeks he was at Basic, and this was completely different. And cruel. It was hard, I had never done it before. Not with time to think about it. And then he was back."

"Did he know? Were you…?" Sam trails off, waving his hand explanatorily in the air between them.

"Yes," Steve says. "He knew, and I was lucky enough to have him feel the same. He's the love of my life, and now —"

"You can't seriously be questioning this," Sam interrupts. "Steve, you literally went against the entire world just to keep him from being incarcerated. That's not something that goes unnoticed. _Especially_ if it was something shared between the two of you before. It doesn’t sound like something you forget."

"That's the thing: I couldn’t tell if he remembered. And if he did, he certainly didn't seem inclined to bring it up."

"When would he have had the time? Between —"

"I know."

"— you kissing Peggy's niece and punching Tony —"

"Sam!"

Sam just stares at him, obviously exasperated. "You kissed her. In front of him."

Steve relents, wincing. "Christ. Okay. But it doesn’t matter now. At least not until he wakes up again."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I'm sorry, Steve."

It's silent for a few miles, and then.

"Did the Commandos know?"

Steve snorts. "Jesus, no. I think Howard did, though. Him and Buck spent enough time yammering to each other in the lab for it to happen. God —" Steve stops, thinking about the tape. Steve's known for a year, found it in some files Nat gave him a lead to. He hadn’t seen the video until Tony had. There was no life in Bucky's eyes, his expression as blank as it was in DC. Something gnawed at Steve's chest as he watched, and he hated himself for not telling Tony, for letting it get to that. He —

"I almost killed him, Sam." His voice breaks. "Tony. There was split second where my shield was raised above him, almost like _why not?_ I don’t know why I knocked his facemask off to begin with, but I almost brought it back down there again. Is it irony? Bucky killing Howard, me nearly doing the same to his son. What do you call that? What does that make us?" He doesn’t wait for an answer before speaking again. "I just kept thinking, 'I got Bucky back. I got him back and he's here at my side watching my six just like before. And I can't let anything happen to him. I can't lose him again.' And then Tony destroyed his arm and I couldn’t get all the _what ifs_ out of my head, how I almost lost him again and — Fuck, Sam. I was so mad. At Hydra, at SHIELD, at Tony, at all our lost time. At myself, for not going after him the first time. And then taking so long to find him the second time. And Tony was just there and I — I couldn’t help it. But Bucky…that's my endgame. Everything I ever wanted was to just have him back again. It wasn’t hard for me to drop the shield. I didn’t want it. I don’t think I ever did." There are tears in his eyes and his hands are in fists. He hurts.

"You know," Sam begins after a pause. "I think you were right about him not liking the future. It's turned you into a cynic. He wouldn’t want that for you, would he?"

Steve laughs, short. A tear drops onto his jeans. "No. I've always been cynical, though. The world nearly took my life about eighteen times, and everyone kept talking about this God out there that was supposed to save me. I couldn’t get behind that, and I remember one time Buck found me glaring at my ma's Bible, just full of that trademark righteous indignation, thinking how the hell could any God put me on my deathbed more than in the schoolyard. I worked myself up so much I got a migraine and then a head cold — that's ironic, isn't it — but Bucky didn't try and convince me otherwise. I was waiting for the day I died, that the world finally got me. He'd probably hit me upside the head, if he knew everything I thought now, about a time like this." He pauses, looking out the window. "Well, not anymore. He's probably changed his mind about the future now."

"You two are a real sad pair," Sam observes. There's humor in his eyes, but then his hand is on Steve's knee, squeezing, and Steve claps a hand over his. Yes, they really are. "I hope T'Challa figures it out soon."

"Yeah, me too."

—

Nat meets them in a McDonald's parking lot.

"You keep making me blow my covers, Rogers," she says in lieu of greeting. She hugs him anyways. She smiles at Sam. "Got a surprise for you." She turns and walks off to her car — well, the car she drove — parked next to the dumpster, hidden from the restaurant's windows and civilian eyes. She opens the trunk and unzips the black duffle inside.

"I'll be damned," Sam says, blowing out a low whistle. His hand reaches out to touch his wings, grazing. "How… you know what? No, I don’t wanna know," he finishes, standing up straight. "Thank you."

Nat shrugs, a smile playing at her lips. "No problem. Figured, I've already broken the law once, might as well." She seems amused by this, but Steve can see it in the hard set of her shoulders: she's tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting so hard only to have it all unravel around her. Tired of doing the right thing and having the tables turn on her.

"Natasha —"

"Uh-uh, Rogers. I'm a big girl. I know how to put one foot in front of the other. And I'm fine with where that leads me, for now."

"Bed-Stuy?" he asks.

Even though he was expecting it, he barely catches the way her lips curl, before sliding back into a straight line. "Yeah. Plus, gotta get these things back to them. Clint will be thrilled." She gestures behind her, and Steve sees more duffels in the trunk, and a long black tube.

"Go easy on Tic-Tac," Sam says. "Scott," he clarifies at Nat's quizzical expression. "Ant-man. Giant-man — whatever. He's still learning the ropes."

She nods but there's a mischievous glint in her eye. "I haven't talked all that much to Tony," she admits. "Not quite sure if he's alright after this one. But, he was never really, was he?"

"He'll be fine," Steve says, more to convince himself. "He's got Rhodey — how is he?"

"Fine. Alive," she says, eyes cutting to Sam. Sam's shoulders drop a bit. "We're lucky any of us are. We were —" she stops, exhaling. "Stupid."

Steve winces. _Staying together is more important than how we stay together._ "I'm sorry, Nat. I'm — God. Are you sure he's okay?" Are you okay, he doesn't ask.

"He will be." I will be, her eyes say. "He's lost a lot but. That's what helps you grow, right? This might've been the tipping point. He — he's not like the rest of us."

Steve thinks suddenly of Howard. Strong, charismatic, bold. Selfish. Wild. He can't imagine him trying to raise Tony, no matter how hard he's tried before. He sees a lot of him in Tony, but Tony cares more for people, he thinks. Even if he has a funny way of showing it. Even if it means letting the UN interfere with their team, Tony cares — deeply. With loud and boisterous words, throwing money around for others because that's all he knows.

All Steve knows how to do is fight.

"No," Steve agrees. "No, he isn’t."

"Don't be so glum, Rogers. C'mon, I'll buy you boys some ice cream."

—

Nat left them with the burner phone number in her pocket, a medium soda in her hand, and a determined set to her spine as she strode away. In the duffel with Sam's wings, were also a new envelope of cash, the keys and lease to a Seattle apartment, granola bars, a laptop, a Brooklyn postcard, a Wyoming address, and two boxes of red hair dye.

("Very funny, Nat.

"What? It's a good color. Something new. It'll go with that blue jacket you never seem to take off."

"Think you're kinda missing the point of me dropping the shield."

"It was worth a try.")

Steve's glad he got to see her, even if he didn’t get to say all he wanted. He hasn’t seen her since the airport in Germany, and he doesn’t really think he should count that. He misses her. But they both have things to hide, amends to make, new lives to create. It's funny that Nat is ending up where he started, holed away in an apartment somewhere in Brooklyn.

Steve's not sure how to fix what he's broken, not hiding away in Seattle, or Wakanda, or anywhere. He's never been a fugitive before, but he knows what it's like to run.

He's not even sure if Tony got the letter, or opened it for that matter. Steve wouldn't blame him if he didn’t — but, he knows him. Tony would do anything to keep his family together. Steve is sad to say he had to see that side of him tested, and in this capacity. But that's where they're similar, he figures. Bucky is his family, and the more dangerous of his decisions have been about keeping him next to Steve.

It hurts that he understood Tony — understood him so well it scared him. But all his life he's never settled for compromise, never for anything less than what's right in its entirety, and he knew he wasn’t going to start now. Not with Bucky on the table.

_I don’t know if I'm worth all this, Steve._

It had stung. It had made heat prick the back of his eyes. It had made his hands go white-knuckled around the control wheel of the Quinjet. He wanted desperately to leap over the seat and grab Buck by his face, kiss him senseless and tell him he was so fucking wrong, so fucking stupid, but he didn’t. Because Bucky was carrying so much: so much weight on his shoulders, so many years of history fighting in his head, so much guilt. He was unmade and made again, into a weapon, into a catalyst, and the worst thing is, now that he's free of them, now that the files are available to the public, now that everyone can see Hydra's heinous crimes, he's their scapegoat. A martyr. He's getting all the blame for works of orchestrated and unspeakable evil, because he's the only face people can see. It makes Steve sick to his stomach; furious, because Bucky thinks the same. Bucky feels an immense amount of guilt for things he had no control over. He was always like that, Steve remembers. Always worrying his teeth over his bottom lip and wringing his hands together whenever Steve got sick, whenever he came home with another black eye, whenever he went for weeks without real food. When Steve couldn’t enlist and Bucky got drafted. When Steve was given the shield for the first time. When Steve got shot in the leg in France. When Steve lost him. Bucky always held himself accountable for whatever bad thing happened to Steve — they were attached at the hip so much that it was easy for Buck to concoct some idea about how whatever he did affected Steve.

He was right, of course.

When Bucky smiled, Steve's heart fluttered. When Bucky got lost in those science fiction novels, Steve's stomach swooped. When Bucky raised his fist for Steve, Steve's chest filled with pride. When Bucky kissed other girls, Steve hurt all over. When Bucky helped Ma peel potatoes, Steve was filled with a peaceful kind of hope. When Bucky was captured, Steve went after him. When Bucky was shot, Steve felt every bone of his ache. When Bucky fell, Steve died. When Bucky kissed him, Steve could only feel love.

When Bucky ran, Steve followed.

And when Bucky wakes up, Steve will be there.

—

"Dude, you gotta stop with the long and contemplative stares into space. You look catatonic half the time," Sam says, slapping Steve's chest. He took the wheel back when they hit the border of Washington.

"Sorry. Just got a lot on my mind," Steve says. They pass a sign that says Seattle's only 221 miles away.

"Barnes?"

"No. Well, yeah. Always," Steve admits, sitting up in his seat. "Just…even if T'Challa gets all of what Hydra put in out of him, people are still going to think of him as the man who killed JFK. So. It almost makes me think, 'What's the point?' Bucky will have a freer mind but. I know it won't make his conscience any clearer; it won't make people see him the way I do."

"No one else is in love with him," Sam points out. Steve starts to say something but he continues, "No one else knew who he was before. Sure, we got history books, biographies, documentaries, Academy Award winning blockbusters, but not the real thing. You told me yourself half that shit wasn’t true anyways." Sam pauses, looking over his shoulder before merging. "Bucky… needs to be able to live. He's been swallowed with fear for at least two years now and he can't do that anymore. He's hiding because he doesn’t trust himself. He'd been under Hydra's hand for seventy years, he knows it doesn’t go away with a bonk to the head. And he knows people are gonna blame him."

"He's gonna let them," Steve says, almost too quiet, like maybe if it's not heard, it won't be true. But Sam hears. He always does. "I can't watch him do that, Sam. It'll — fuck. It just might be the thing that kills me." Bucky will let himself be scraped raw, bare and bleeding for the appeasement of others. Hydra already did that to him enough, Steve won't let them do it again from the shadows.

"I know for a fact that if you went and keeled over on him now, he'd bring you back just to kill you again." Sam berates and Steve laughs. "And I'd help him. I didn’t spend too much time with him, but I spent enough." There's a beat, and then, "So. You don’t want to see him crumble like this? Don’t want him to bear all that weight, all that blame? Do something. Make sure people know it wasn’t him. So when he wakes up, it'll be an easier battle."

—

They stay in West Seattle for a month.

Sam works easily; there's a VA less than fifteen minutes from them. He lets his hair grow out, and a beard shades his face. He carries a pocketknife. Just in case. He helps. He rebuilds. He goes by Austin.

Steve answers to Will here, but. He doesn’t really get out much.

He waits. He always feels on the edge of something, fingers itching to reach for the phone in his pocket or the gun in the kitchen drawer. He wonders, ruefully, if this is what it was like for Bucky, two years straight. Always ready for a fight, always getting too tense when someone stares just a little too long. He grew a beard himself, dyed his hair dark, but he never stops feeling eyes on him.

He spends most of his time staring at the phone T'Challa gave him or the dark gray flip phone he shares with Tony.

Steve thinks. Thinks far too much for his own good, his own thoughts keeping him awake at night. He stays awake as long as Bucky sleeps. It stops the nightmares, anyhow.

He feels helpless here. He doesn’t feel like himself, and he knows it's not the missing shield that makes him feel like this.

He's supposed to fight; to help; to heal; to fix; to create. It's hard to remind himself he is helping someone, when that person is on the other side of the globe. When that person is scared and asleep and so fucking broken.

Steve _hates_ waiting.

He snaps in the produce aisle. The apples in his hand have turned to mush, the juice leaking out through his clenched fingers, dripping down his arm and falling to the floor. Sam wards off the angry employee, throws a twenty at him, and unwinds Steve's fingers carefully before leading him back out to their truck. Steve cries and Sam doesn’t say anything.

They drive to Utah.

—

"Here," Sam shoves a book into Steve's chest. The cover is black, the pages blank. "Got you some pencils, too." And then he throws the pack into Steve's lap.

Steve pulls out a pencil and twirls it around in his fingers. He stares at the first page for too long, mind reeling. And then, he draws.

—

Utah turns into Oklahoma turns into Missouri turns into Louisiana turns into Florida.

They don’t stay anywhere longer than two weeks, Steve's nerves electric and burning, fingers thrumming against his thigh, feet aching to _move_. It eases the ache, traveling. The want in his chest isn’t so consuming, with his feet on the dashboard and sketchbook in his lap, another state line behind him.

—

He's gone through two sketchbooks already. Almost every picture is of Bucky, in some shape or form. Every now and then there's a series of pages just filled with words, whatever Steve's thinking pouring out onto the page, sometimes in the middle of a drawing. He rambles, he knows, but in everything he does, there is love. When he shades in the stubble Bucky's grown, when he sketches that cocky grin from '38, when he outlines the shape of his hands, when his pencil moves before he can think about it, forming words and stories on the page about that one time Buck did this, or punched that, or laughed at this, or saved Steve's ass from that. Sometimes he just simply draws Bucky's profile, three words sketched into the corner of the page.

—

He draws Bucky as he last saw him, cold and still and resigned. His brain is screaming at him that it's wrong. It's all _wrong_. He hates that Bucky got to that place where he thought that was his only option, and Steve hates that he didn’t fight for it — for him.

The page is ripped out before he realizes. The lead stains his hands.

He misses him.

—

They're in Maine. Sam's trying — and failing, disastrously — to steam lobster.

("Really?

"What? Don't give me that look. We can't go to Maine and _not_ have lobster. Call me a tourist all you want. Bet you'll change your mind when you have a taste of my impeccable seafood skills."

"Have you ever even made lobster before?"

"Shut up. And watch the master at work.")

Sam frowns at the laptop in front of him now, squinting at the instructions, a curse falling from his lips. Steve is smug and bemused as he watches the scene unfold before him. He draws Sam — on a napkin, though, because the sketchbooks belong to Bucky — bent over the counter, towel draped over his shoulder, lips pursed in frustration, pot steaming in front of him. He's not wearing an apron, but Steve has a suspicion that he would if they had one. He draws it on him for good measure.

"What's so funny over there, Rogers?" Sam asks, waving tongs at him.

Steve can't help but fall into laughter, the picture too hilarious. Sam stalks over and looks at what Steve's drawn, almost a caricature, and Sam's shoulders shake before he falls into the chair across from Steve with peals of laughter, tongs falling to the floor.

It's really — it's not that funny, and yet. It's the most hilarious thing they've seen in nearly three months. And they can't stop.

That is, until the phone rings.

—

It takes them — in Steve's opinion — far too long to get to Wakanda. Sam reminds him they've made it halfway across the world in just over twelve hours. Steve thinks his point is proven.

Steve nearly forgets his manners, not to mention Wakandan customs, when he enters T'Challa's — _King_ T'Challa's — palace. He only really manages to stalk into the building because he was expected, and these aren’t normal circumstances, but he feels hard eyes on him as he goes. He doesn't really care.

"T'Challa," Steve breathes when they make it to the lab.

"Your Highness," Sam greets, a slight lilt to his tone. He's still not really over Romania. Or Berlin.

T'Challa nods at them both, hands clasped behind his back. He looks worn, but still his head is high in modest regality. His smile is kind. He shakes their hands firm and reassuring. Steve admires him, especially at a time like this, at the forefront of a nationwide transition.

"Thank you, again," Steve says. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. There wasn’t any trouble?"

"No bother at all," T'Challa answers smoothly. "Our security and surveillance is top of the line. Your friend has been safe." He smiles warmly at them before gesturing for them to follow him into the lab. "Our good doctors here have been working tirelessly, and think they have come to a solution. But, I will let them explain."

Steve is anxious. Bucky is ten feet from him, and he aches to rip him out of that chamber, wrap his arms around him and never let him go. He restrains himself. This was Bucky's choice, and it would be unfair to not listen to the people who have worked so hard to bring him back to Steve. Even if he doesn’t understand some of it, or it causes an uncomfortable churning in his stomach.

There are about five doctors in the room, but T'Challa only formerly introduces them to two. "This is Dr. Ayodele Buhari," he gestures to a tall woman with a clipboard in her hand, "and this is Dr. Faraji Soyinka." The man greets them with a smile, glasses high on his nose. "They spearheaded the research and have come to a unanimously positive conclusion." The other three doctors nod their assent, seemingly pleased with what has transpired.

"Would you like to sit?" Dr. Buhari asks, gesturing to two chairs beside her.

"Thank you," Sam says, pulling Steve by the elbow as he sits. He squeezes gently before he lets go. Steve is suddenly very aware of how grateful he is for Sam's presence, here.

"Well, to begin, your friend has a very strong mind. Beautiful brain," Dr. Buhari says, a warm smile on her face. "But, it has been through a lot. A lot of damages." She nods gravely, and Steve's hand curls into a fist.

"And unfortunately, due to these damages," Dr. Soyinka begins, calm, "it is more difficult to offer a blanket solution, as we had originally hoped. It is — widespread, extensive." Steve shifts, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. "That is not to say it can't be helped. Healed."

Steve's eyes trail over to Bucky's frame behind them; he is so still. Nothing like how Steve knew him. He spoke with his hands, gestured with his entire body, turned a simple walk into a dance like it was nobody's business. Mouth running a mile a minute. _God,_ Steve would give anything just to hear his voice again.

"So, what are you suggesting?" Sam speaks up, and Steve manages to turn his eyes back to the two doctors before him.

Soyinka pushes his glasses back up against the bridge of his nose. "Well, Mr. Wilson, as I'm sure you know from your experience with troubled soldiers, this kind of…trauma, is no easy thing to come out of."

"But your friend has been doing so well already," interjects Buhari. "He spent two years repairing. He heals rapidly — because of the serum similar to yours, Captain — and between wipes they froze him to stall this. But since he has been free for so long he has more time to regrow. Alas, his brain is at war with what it had been accustomed to during his time with Hydra — he remembers that time in vivid detail, when he needs to be remembering the times before more clearly. Right now, he has a combination of both, but the torture is eclipsing everything else. As it came to him, he wrote it down, which was very good — helped to accelerate the healing as he focused more on before. But, there is still so much more to be done."

Steve's mind flashes to the lifeless look in Bucky's eyes. The rage in his muscles. Just from ten words. He rubs the spot on his chest where the metal fist had punched him through the elevator.

"His mind was trained for so long…" Soyinka removes his glasses then, replacing them with pinched fingers, shaking his head. "He has to train it again. Condition it, even. The neural pathways in his brain are too associated with all he has gone through — but, only when presented to him. That is very significant in itself. That shows great strength."

"King T'Challa noted that he did not have any…episodic outbreaks, if you will, in your recent time together," Buhari says, gesturing lightly to the man in the corner. "That says a great deal about his reparation — he was surrounded by fighting and tension and violence — even went to a place where he had been kept and tortured —" Steve's fist is so tight his bones pop. It is loud in the spacious room. Dr. Buhari winces, hands raised. "My apologies. But it is truly phenomenal, that he has rebuilt so much without any fallbacks before. It makes this a touch easier."

"So, in order to not have such a reaction to those triggers, he must train his mind to not associate any of the sinister connotations or intentions with them, which, is a fairly simple conclusion to come to," Soyinka glances at Sam, who nods lightly. "Now," he begins again, leafing through the clipboard in his hands. "The process is also quite simple. The areas of the brain associated with memory — the hippocampus and prefrontal cortex, even the amygdala — the neurons and synapses there move and work rapidly and with one goal in mind when the words are presented to him. These words produced the fight response in him, rather than the flight — which is what we are going to attempt to do. Not necessarily so that he becomes cowered when he heard the words, but more so, body and mind reacting in a way that does not engage the normally associated behaviors, to instead back down from the compulsion to obey. Essentially, the exact opposite of what Hydra conditioned.

"We intend to activate the parasympathetic nervous system, so there is no danger felt when the words are beginning to be heard, and so he is calm when they are fully presented. We will combine this with the slowing of those pathways in his brain that are activated. See, recognition in the brain is processed through the limbic areas — the hippocampus and amygdala, here — and builds a sense of familiarity, while the cortical pathways process the intention behind that familiarity."

"So essentially, we are going to break that familiarity. Lessen it to nothing, to cut off the negative intention, and to activate a response that doesn’t lead to destruction or a loss of control of his own mind. In the end, those trigger words' conditioning will be extinct, and he will not have any reaction, other than maybe a calm and steady heart beat." Buhari attempts for a smile. But Steve is only hearing these words over and over. Everything going on in Bucky's brain being laid out in front of him in such simple and yet complicated terms — it seems easy enough, but he knows it won't be. It —

"How long would that take?" He doesn’t recognize his own voice, gruff and cracked. His hand begins to cramp.

"Well, actually," Soyinka readjusts his glasses again. He gestures hurriedly to another doctor behind them, who hands them a vial filled with green liquid. "Since he spent so many decades with Hydra, it will take quite a while to reverse that. But, he is not a normal man — with his accelerated healing, and also with the strength he has already shown, the time will already be reduced. But, the process will not be fun, and we know both you and he have already waited so long already, so we spent the last two months developing this serum of our own." He raises the green vial.

"We apologize for the long wait, but we wanted to be absolutely certain about this all before we presented it to you," Buhari offers kindly. Steve can only shake his head minutely. He is grateful for anything that brings Bucky back — to him.

"The serum, will do all the work in the brain that will make the conditioning, or extinction of, all the more easy," she continues, looking down at her own clipboard. "We will administer it, and it will slow the neural pathways for us, and activate the acetylcholine in his brain to help dampen the power of the words. It should speed up the process phenomenally."

"Before it goes unsaid," Soyinka starts, "let's mention that when he's presented with the words, even with the serum, it will need to be in an environment completely polar to Hydra, and with opposite intentions. We also advise that the words be somehow presented out of order, and with other words of opposite connotation mixed with them, as well. Also, ah, distractions would be beneficial. It will help confuse the mind, and further slow the recognition and retrieval of these words, alongside the serum."

Sam is nodding like he deeply understands everything being told to them — which, Steve distantly thinks, he most likely does. But Steve is selfish, and he is only thinking of how good Bucky's skin will feel under his fingertips again, how bright his smile will be when he is finally, _finally free_ , of what Hydra did to him. All they took from him. Steve is so thankful to be able to help give it all back. In any way he can.

"Thank you," he manages, fist unclenching. It will ache for a while, but that’s insignificant. Everything comes second when thinking of Bucky. Bucky who is there, unconscious but alive (just barely, Steve's brain cruelly reminds him) and scared of all the damage he can do. He won't have to be scared anymore. "Shouldn’t he have heard all of this, though?"

The doctors before him share a look. "Well," Buhari begins nervously, "we just thought it best to notify you first, that way it will not be such a magnitude of information to process, if we had told you together. We figured your knowledge on the subject first would help provide a steady and comfortable presence for him when he awakens."

Steve nods. That's — "Yes, thank you. Really, I can't begin to describe my debt to you for helping him."

The doctors don’t respond, but there is pride in their eyes and there are small smiles on their faces.

Soyinka clears his throat, looking between Steve and Sam. "Shall we wake him up, then?"

—

Steve waits.

He's waited for seventy years; he's waited for two more; he's waited for three months. And he'll wait again, however long it takes, until Bucky is his again. Until his mind is free and as brazen and as whole as it was before Steve lost him the first time. Until there are no qualms to stutter the heart that beats in his chest; until there is no hesitation. He'll wait for Bucky to _heal_ , to _become_ again, as he was already before Steve dragged him into the fray. He will wait and stand by his side as Bucky sheds the last remnants of those years away, as he steps with light feet out of a shell that has known far too much darkness. Steve will watch him breathe in the light, see it reflect in the blue of Bucky's eyes as he always has.

He realizes now that Bucky deserves the wait. He will wait as Bucky builds, for as long as he needs to begin to delve into the penance he owes; the guilt he is ridden with for letting Bucky fall into so much more loss. He will help him gain it all back; help him start over. Bucky deserves a new beginning.

The journey won't be painless, and it won't be easy, but Steve knows it will be infused with so much need and heart and self and love and hope, so much of what Hydra was not, that the end will surpass the means, and that the worth will be greater than imagined. But he doesn’t let himself imagine, because he know it would turn selfish, and this is owned by Bucky, and only him. It belongs to him, it is for him, it is so he can regain his own self. Then he can turn to Steve.

But Steve has so much faith.

He can wait a few more minutes.

—

It happens slowly.

The doctors and technicians swarm his still body, adjusting and preparing and observing. There's an armchair to the side, for when he wakes up. There are towels and water and slippers. There's a low murmur around them, and Sam stands solid next to Steve, arms crossed and patient. Steve feels numb, and his skin is ablaze with anticipation. Just to see Bucky _blink_ would be enough. Anything. Anything that shows he's alive and real and here in this time with Steve. That Steve is that fucking lucky to have lost him and died — lost him so many times — and to have him back again. That they survived centuries.

The glass pane slides open as torturously as it closed all those months ago, and Steve watches as the white mist dissipates around Bucky, how the color returns to his cheeks. His finger twitches, and there's too much commotion among the doctors, too many eyes.

"Maybe we should give him some space," Sam announces, but lowly, and Steve is so grateful for him. The doctors back away, save for Buhari and Soyinka, and Sam puts a hand on Steve's shoulder for a moment. The muscles relax under Sam's touch, and Steve didn’t realize he was so tense. Sam takes a step back and to the side as well, but Steve can't find it in himself to move.

A low sound emerges from Bucky, his face scrunched up in bleariness or discomfort. His eyes still haven’t opened, but his head rolls gently as he readjusts. He frowns, slightly, wrinkle between his eyebrows and lip jut out; plump. Steve can feel the pull of its chapped skin under the pad of his thumb now, and everything in him aches with it. _God_ , he misses him.

His lips open slightly, face relaxing, and then his eyes open. And Steve could fucking cry.

Bucky blinks a few times, readjusting to the light, focusing on the people around him. Soyinka presses a button on the chamber and the straps across his body retract.

"Sergeant Barnes," Buhari begins softly.

Bucky's gaze goes to her, and he's quiet for a moment before, "How long?" Steve nearly shudders at the sound of his voice — _too long, it's been too fucking long._

"Three months," she answers easily, like it was expected. "Would you like to sit?"

He nods, already pushing out of the chamber. She is there at his left side, ready should his balance kilter because of the missing limb, but he walks the few steps smoothly. It's when he sits in the chair he sees Steve, and the small smile that fits itself on his face is enough to get Steve grinning like a fool. He restrains himself, though, from striding over and pushing his own lips against Bucky's, from running his fingers through his hair. From touching him.

Soyinka offers him water and sets the slippers by his feet; Bucky looks grateful for both. "So, Sergeant, I bet you're curious as to what we've come up with?" Soyinka smiles warmly at him, hands clasped behind his back.

Bucky nods, taking a sip of the water. He grimaces slightly, as he shifts in his seat, and Steve moves forward a step before stopping himself. He makes himself stay put; there's no need to smother Bucky, overwhelm him as he just regains consciousness. Even if all he wants is to be beside him again. He watches Bucky's head loll slightly against the back of the chair, his arm falling off the side.

"Maybe we should give him some time to come to — readjust?" Steve means it like a suggestion but his tone conveys a command. The Captain America voice.

Soyinka looks between him and Bucky, who is settling further into the chair. He opens his mouth but T'Challa speaks first:

"That is a good idea, Captain. Come, all, let's allow Barnes some rest. Your solutions will be awaiting him when he is ready." He beckons them all out of the lab, the doctors filing out into the hall. Steve stares wistfully at Bucky — he looks so _peaceful_. Comfortable. His eyes are drooping closed again, and he is still, but it's nothing like cryo. Here, Bucky's chest rises and falls, there is a wrinkle to his brow, and his hand is curled. Signs of life that were missing from before. Steve's heart is heavy, chest full of warmth as he watches him. He's missed him so goddamn much.

He follows Sam across the lab, and is just about to step out when he hears Bucky say, "Wait." His voice is gruff, and his eyes are barely visible, but his head is turned towards them. "Would you stay, please? Steve?"

Steve's breath catches in his throat. He looks between Sam and Bucky, to T'Challa who is still holding open the door. Sam just raises an eyebrow at him, and T'Challa doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. Steve turns back to Bucky, already walking towards him. "Yeah, Buck. Of course."

The door is closed behind him before he even makes it over to Bucky. He pulls a stool from one of the tables and sets himself next to Bucky, who has a lopsided smile on his face. It's such a ghost of 1938 that Steve nearly tips out of the chair. "How're you feeling?" he asks softly.

"Tired," he answers, taking a lazy sip of water. "Wasn’t allowed to be tired before. Feels nice."

Steve's heart breaks a little at that, and his hand is reaching out to Bucky's hair before he comprehends the movement. "You don’t have to worry about that anymore, Buck." And then he realizes, it's absolutely true. They're going to get this stuff out of his head, they're going to give him the freedom he deserves, and Bucky can finally _breathe_ again.

"I know, Stevie," he answers, voice soft, head leaning into Steve's touch.

"Man, I haven’t heard that in a while," Steve says, trying but failing for a joke, considering the way his voice cracks in half.

Bucky peeks an eye open, reaching his arm out to touch Steve's knee. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm gonna make up for all our lost time. Promise." He smiles up at Steve, then, sad, and Steve rests his hand on Bucky's.

"You got nothin' to be sorry for. Don’t gotta make up for anything, Bucky. We got all the time in the world ahead of us." He squeezes Bucky's hand, and with the way Bucky's fingers curl their way around Steve's palm, Steve thinks — maybe — he remembers, he _remembers_ , and God, Steve just wants —

"You got that one right, Stevie," Bucky says, pulling his hand away to rest back comfortably at his side. His head still leans heavily into Steve's other hand, and Steve keeps his fingers moving, drawing circles onto Bucky's scalp, threading through his hair. It's considerably warm, for having just gotten out of cryo. Steve smiles softly, eyes trailing over Bucky's face. His features are slack and his lips are parted slightly, eyes closed and chest moving at a steady rhythm. Steve lets him sleep, shifting himself so he keeps his hand in Bucky's hair and leans on the armrest.

Steve is so fucking lucky to love him in two different centuries; to have him after all this fucking time.

—

He wakes up with his head on Bucky's knee; alert. Bucky's hand is running idly over his hair.

"Stevie," he whispers, hand falling down to Steve's neck.

Steve's heart hammers in his chest. He lifts his head, eyes meeting Bucky's. Bucky looks so content; soft and peaceful. The corner of his mouth lifts in a dopey smile, and he curls his fingers in the nape of Steve's hair. Steve — he's so lucky, he feels —

"Buck," he breathes, sitting up. His knee rests against Bucky's, and he lets his hand rest there, squeezing gently. His thumb rubs circles through Bucky's cotton pants, and Bucky hums lowly. He's the most beautiful thing Steve has ever seen.

"Remember that time in '36 when you got into it with Thomas and — Jesus, you're so stupid — and Mrs. Applebaum almost had your head for knocking into her fruit stand? You're lucky your nose didn’t get broken — _again_." Bucky stares down at Steve pointedly, a grin ghosting over his lips. He drags his fingers across Steve's scalp.

Steve snorts. "I remember her yelling _your_ ear off, since you're the one who came in there and started punching the lights out of him, kicking dirt all over the place. _I_ had to pull _you_ off of him. You kept mumbling curses about it the whole way home."

"I'd been spending too much time with your dumbass, it was rubbing off on me," Bucky smiles, and Steve chuckles. He traces a pattern onto Bucky's knee. Bucky sighs. "Shit, I was so in love with you that day I didn’t know what to do with myself. 'S why I lost it on Thomas, you know. Thought you knew that."

Steve lifts his head slowly, swallowing hard. "You —"

"Of course I remember, punk," Bucky says, leaning forward in his chair. "You think I'd forget something like that? I remembered even when Hydra had me, I ain't forgetting any time soon."

He says it so casually, Steve is thrown. And it — it's _everything_ Steve's been needing. Ever since he found him in Romania. Ever since he saw his face in DC. He spent so long holed away, a giant knot forming between his shoulders just trying to find him. Find him so he could have him close again, and keep him there. He thinks, retrospectively, that Sam must've _known_ ; he's smart, and Steve wasn’t exactly doing a good job keeping himself together before or after Sokovia. And God, when he found out that two men could get _married_ , when it broke the news everywhere — Sam had to have known from the minute Steve closed the door behind himself and broke down for nearly two days. He came back out with such a vigor focused on Bucky and only him, that it must've been obvious. But Sam never said anything, until a couple months ago. And Steve's glad he did — having Sam understand meant more than he thought it would. A huge weight was lifted off his chest and he felt _open_. Like what he was doing had more purpose and meaning if someone else knew and understood. Of course, that's never really true when it comes to Bucky — Steve would do anything for him without a second thought. (As proven numerous times in the past.)

And Bucky remembered even when Hydra had him — Steve swallows whatever pained noise was threatening to come out of his mouth. All those years, he remembered loving Steve. A century of pain and manipulation, and he kept that one piece of his heart. Steve —

"Stop that," Bucky says, tugging gently on Steve's hair before bringing his hand down to cup his cheek. "I'm here now, okay? Don’t think about that stuff."

— loves him so much.

Steve leans forward and kisses him, all those years rushing towards them when their lips touch. Everything that's kept them apart floats away when Bucky slides his hand back into his hair, clutching the strands as he bites on Steve's lip. Steve's hands move up his thighs, and his chest feels impossibly light as he kisses Bucky. Kisses him for the first time in this century, the first time since 1945. A moan sounds in the back of Bucky's throat, and Steve only kisses him deeper, tracing his tongue over his teeth the way he learned Bucky likes back in '34. He grips Bucky's side as Bucky pushes into Steve, mouths pressed close. Steve has missed everything about him for too long.

"I love you," Steve says, like it isn’t obvious. Bucky just kisses him again. "It nearly killed me, watching you go in that thing," Steve admits, nodding his head to the chamber.

"Believe me, I wasn’t looking forward to more time on ice, especially after just getting back to you." Bucky nudges his chin against Steve's. "But I didn’t see another option."

Steve keeps quiet at that, because he knows if he says anything it won't be what Bucky wants to hear, or needs to, especially coming out of Steve's mouth. He needs to allow him the dignity of his choice. "Well, none of that matters now," Steve says instead, words floating into the small space between their faces. "You're here." He presses a kiss to Bucky's chin, right next to his mouth, and Bucky turns his face just so for their lips to meet again.

"I'm scared," Bucky says, soft against Steve's lips.

Steve leans back and runs a hand over Bucky's hair. He looks so small, curled into this chair, the skin of his lip between his teeth; afraid of himself. Steve's thumb slides over Bucky's bottom lip. "I know. But T'Challa and the doctors figured out something good. For you. And I'll be there every step of the way, Buck. We'll get it out." _Please don't leave me again._ He kisses Bucky's temple, then, firm and resolute.

"I'm sorry I ran," Bucky says, eyes running over Steve's face. "It was bad, then. After DC. I —" He shakes his head, hair falling into his face. "I went to the Smithsonian, and I saw my own face looking back at me and I didn’t know _anything_. I wasn’t him, I had no idea who he was and I'm tryin' but — I knew you would come after me because of _him_ and I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sleeping because I would wake up screaming, and I found too much comfort in knowing I had weapons on my person. It took too long for me to get a good night's sleep, and even now it's rare. But it was easiest in Romania, for some reason. I found a safe house, all these files and intel and — it was easy to collect and regroup and just figure it all the fuck out. And then I started writing everything down and remembering and I just stayed in that apartment. I stayed way too long, I know. But I couldn’t leave. And then, I turn on the TV one day and see your star-spangled ass running around a _flying city_ just a few countries over." He stops then to laugh, shaking his head at Steve. He only laces their fingers together in response.

"But," Bucky swallows. "You were _there_. And doing good. And I remembered everything from fighting alongside you in the war. You were so focused, and weaving through the fight, taking them down left and right. And making sure everyone got out safe. You were — _you._ And I was afraid that if you found me it wouldn’t be what you were looking for — it wouldn’t be the same me from before all of this. But then you left, and I stayed. But I should’ve known better. Your stubborn ass wasn’t gonna give up."

"Never on you, Buck. We said 'til the end of a line for a reason, y'know," Steve says, smiling small. He pulls their joined hands into his lap, letting his other rest against Bucky's face. Hearing those words come out of Bucky's mouth, those thoughts voiced, it pains Steve. (There is also a small swell of pride, at Bucky saying so much all at once; being able to.) There's a gnawing in his chest, because all he wants is to make this _right_. So there is nothing to fear, nothing to doubt; as sure as they were when they shared their first kiss in '34. "I told you that you were it for me once, and I'll gladly do it a thousand more times." And he leans forward and peppers Bucky's face with kisses, his hand against the warm skin of Bucky's neck — and isn’t _that_ just — His skin is warm, his eyes are open, his heart is beating strong and true in his chest, and he's grabbing Steve with his hand and pulling his mouth down to his.

It's fucking perfect.

—

Bucky sits silently as they explain to him what they told Steve and Sam the day before. He nods when appropriate, and stares and listens with intensity. Steve feels him tense for a moment when they explain the serum, but he just presses his leg further against Bucky's.

"I'm willing to try anything to get this stuff outta me," he says at the end, nodding and smiling.

"That is wonderful to hear, Sergeant," T'Challa says, that ever-present kind glow adorning his features. "We must admit that while the serum did take a while to concoct, it did not take the entire three months as we said previously." Steve's brow furrows at that, as does Bucky's, but T'Challa carries on before they can open their mouths. "We spent quite a while developing this for you," and as he says it, he gestures towards a technician coming into the lab, a gleaming metal arm in their hands.

Bucky inhales sharply.

"It's Vibranium, of course," T'Challa continues. "And we've taken the liberty of adding some other upgrades, as well. There will be some surgery involved, if you're up for it, but the aftereffects will be painless."

Steve isn't sure how Bucky will react, and shares a look with Sam across the room. But then Bucky rises out of the chair, using Steve's thigh to push himself up with the one arm he currently has. He walks slowly over to the technician with the arm, eyes never leaving the appendage. His hand reaches out and traces over it, fingers resting on the metal. Steve sees him swallow before he looks up to meet T'Challa's eyes.

"After," he says, voice cracked.

T'Challa nods like he expected nothing less.

—

Steve brings his knuckles to knock on Bucky's door. Tomorrow they begin training.

"Yeah?"

Steve enters, keeping the books in his hands behind his back. "Hey." Bucky is sitting at the head of his bed, feet curled under him. Steve leans down and kisses him, soft, and feels a something burst in his chest, warm and happy. Bucky stares back at him with a look of what Steve's feeling, and Steve can't keep the smile off his face. "You ready?" he asks, sitting down across from Bucky.

Bucky sighs, long and low. "Yeah. It's just hard to wrap my head around. That one day, I won't have to worry about —" he stops then, letting out another breath. Steve sees it in his eyes, the caution there, the fear, the excitement. The relief he won't let himself feel yet. The blame he still keeps on his shoulders. Steve rubs his thumb over Bucky's knuckles.

"I wanna show you something," Steve says, and pulls out the books. All the sketchbooks he went through while they waited. "Sam got tired of my moping and threw these at me," he chuckles, sliding them over to Bucky. "And then I just couldn’t stop drawing. And then Sam got tired of _that_."

Bucky's lips curl a bit as he reaches for the sketchbooks. Steve watches as he leafs through, eyes scanning over all the renditions of his face, the collection of memories that span a lifetime longer than they expected, the words he scribbled when the drawing wasn’t enough and there was just _too much_ in his head; heart.

"Stevie…" Bucky whispers, fingers tracing over the lines of a sketch of the two of them, Steve sick in bed and Bucky in the chair next to him, hand in his.

Steve shrugs. "I just — if you needed to remember anything else, or wanted something else to look at — I tried to draw as much as I could from before, but." _You always had a better memory than me_ dies on his tongue.

"You sap," Bucky huffs out, fingers reaching out for Steve's. "C'mere." He runs his hand up Steve's arm as Steve leans in. The kiss is sweet, soft and slow in that tender way Steve has come to relish, as he does anything with Bucky. Bucky's thumb is insistent on his cheek, circling slowly as their lips move together.

When they break, the first thing out of Steve's mouth is, "It wasn’t your fault."

"Steve."

He doesn't stop, though. He needs Bucky to know, even if he won't listen, or won't believe him. He can't sit here silently while Bucky stews in his own suffering. But he won't plow over what Bucky's feeling, either. Bucky hasn’t been able to feel for so long, and Steve won't take that from him, no matter how negative. How _wrong_.

"I know you're in pain. What they did to you — what they _made_ you do — it's terrible, Buck. But I can't let — they hurt you enough. It's not fair that all people know of Hydra —" Bucky winces. Steve cards his fingers through his hair, apologetically, comforting — "all they know of _you_ , is what you did when you didn't have a choice. It _wasn't you_. And people know that, but they're scared. They know the you they read about in school, saw in the documentaries, the museum. They _loved_ you. That shouldn't go away because of all that's happened. You don’t have to give them that." _You don’t have to hurt for them._

Steve swallows, resting his fingers on the back of Bucky's neck. "It's…people are always gonna be scared, Buck. There's always gonna be something. And with all the files out —if they care enough, they'll know. They'll see the truth. And I thought, maybe — I could — help." He gestures loosely to the sketchbooks, but Bucky doesn't seem to notice.

"You don't gotta do anything, Stevie." _You don't gotta do everything_. Steve huffs, because they both know that's as likely to stop happening as it is for Bucky to stop saying it. "This is my fight. I'll deal with it."

"You shouldn't _have_ to," Steve all but growls. He breathes. "I can't sit here and let them take you apart like that, okay? I'm gonna — if it's okay with you —" (because they're still Bucky's, they're still for him) "— I want people to see these. Not all of them, but. The ones that matter. That show the you I know, and whatever you you are now. The only you people should think of when they hear your name. I'll draw more, I'll write more, whatever. I just — you deserve so much better than this, Buck. And I'm sorry for — I'll make it up to you." He bites the inside of his cheek, bites down hard, because he just might say too much, just might fall apart if he doesn’t stop himself.

But the way Bucky slowly shifts, moves the hand in his hair down to his lap, squeezes it gently and holds it insistently, thumb stroking over Steve's knuckles. The way he inhales before staring at Steve with those bright (not as bright as a century ago) blue eyes. The way he simply says, "Steve." He knows what Steve's thinking. And Steve shouldn't be surprised, really. He's always been an open book to Bucky, pages curling and faded from use, spine cracked to open to that favorite passage, carried around forever and still in good condition. Steve feels incredibly raw, all of a sudden. After seventy years apart, it hits him with such strength and intensity that Bucky _always knows_ Steve. Will always know. And Steve him, like it's always been. Tears well of their own accord.

Bucky continues to give him that soft look, pure and gracious. "That's not your fault. I don’t —" he pauses, pulling Steve closer. "Steve. I don't blame you for that. Okay? You thought I was dea — it's okay. You had to finish the fight." Bucky smiles at him then, forgiving and blameless, and Steve — he lets a few tears fall. He rests his head on Bucky's shoulder. Fingers go to his hair.

"You know I —I couldn't — it was too —" his breath hitches. "You were _gone_. And then I woke up and you were still — it wasn’t fair. That I got to come back. I closed my eyes to grieve and then I was right back in it. A different war. And it was okay, for a while, fighting. It distracted me. But then it was over and — and you were still —" A sob breaks through. He didn't mean for that to happen. But he can't stop. It doesn't stop. His heart wrenches in his chest, body heaving, tears flowing hot and heavy down his face. _So fucking long_. He's hurt for so long.

"Shh." Bucky pulls Steve closer, bodies flush as Steve breaks. His hand goes back to curl in his hair. Here's some more irony Steve was looking for. After all this time, all they've been through, all _Bucky's_ been through, and he's the one taking care of Steve. Just like before. _God_ , Steve just — Bucky presses a kiss to his temple. He holds Steve so close, so warm and solid against him. Steve feels the drops of Bucky's own tears on his head.

"Buck," Steve tries, voice raspy, but Bucky shushes him again. They both need this. Steve knows. He wraps his arms around Bucky's frame, nestles his face in the side of his neck. Bucky's nose brushes against his ear from time to time. They stay like that for a while, and it's calm. Cathartic. Necessary. Steve relishes any and every moment he has with Bucky.

Eventually, Bucky sighs. Kisses his head again. "Okay." A resolution. Steve can help as long as he forgives himself. And Bucky has to know he will; will do anything to remove the burden from his shoulders. Even if it’s the last thing Steve wants to do, the last thing he _can_ do. He may be stubborn, but he helps more than holds his ground. Loves more than anything. Especially when it comes to Bucky.

He nods, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. Bucky hums, settled. And then, "I shouldn't have kissed her. Not in front of you. But I — I wasn’t sure if you remembered and it was — it was this thing that — I'm sorry. It just needed to happen, I think. But —" _I wish it was you_.

Bucky shrugs. "Don't worry about it." He pauses. "It — it hurt, a little. But it wasn’t anything different than watching you with Peggy, before." Steve knows that's not true, because nearly every chance he got Bucky was trying to foist Steve over to her, said it'd make sense, be for the greater good; the war effort. Steve never gave purchase to those ideas, though, obviously. "Probably would've been better if it wasn’t her fucking niece, Steve," Bucky says gruffly, and Steve snorts. That… well, that part wasn't his fault, really, but still his spine prickles all the same. Peggy didn't deserve that — Sharon didn’t deserve that. Bucky doesn’t deserve that.

"How're you doing, by the way?" Bucky asks now, quieter. "It hasn’t been long."

"I'm okay," Steve answers. He is, he thinks. He devoted a whole week in Seattle to that particular bout of grief. And Sam was there. Which helped tremendously. "I was expecting it, but not — I don’t know, it was a shock, still, but. She lived the life she lived." Even if she couldn't remember it at times, it was still a bold and headstrong life she lived; all she achieved. Bucky nods, and Steve wishes he would feel the same for himself. Remember all he was — is — sans Hydra. (Is that more irony?)

They're tangled together, silent. Their chests rise and fall together, slow and content. For the most part. These are their last moments before everything changes, for better or worse yet to be determined. Steve traces his fingers along Bucky's skin, breathing deep.

"I know I have memory problems but I'm pretty sure your hair was blonde the last time I saw you," Bucky says, running fingers through the front of Steve's hair.

Steve barks a laugh. It feels so good to laugh. So good to laugh with Bucky. "We were fugitives. Had to switch it up. Sam grew a beard."

Bucky chuckles, and it's more beautiful than it ought to be. "What happened to that baseball cap of yours?"

"Hat hair."

Bucky laughs again, chest vibrating against Steve's, the sound right in his ears, vibrant and lovely and _everything_. Steve tips his head up to kiss him. So in love, and so lucky.

That's how they fall asleep.

—

They train. It's hard. Bucky stops them after the first word, then the second, then the third. It takes hours for him to be ready to hear them all. He cries. So does Steve.

Russian is so foreign on his tongue.

—

Sam tells jokes. Steve's usually the butt of them. It works; Bucky laughs.

 _Homecoming_.

Bucky stills.

—

They're outside. Beautiful green grass stretches out before them, sun bright overhead. Sam sits on a flat boulder, some form of a megaphone in his hands. He waits until they start.

Steve begins with _longing._ Bucky's fist curls, his face hardens, but he's there. _Daybreak. Benign_. Steve sees him struggling. He wants to stop, tell him he's doing so well, so fucking good, that Steve is so proud of him. But he carries on, no matter how strong the taste of bile is in his mouth with each word. Even when Bucky falls to his knees, shirt stuck to his back with sweat from the effort, Steve continues. Bucky doesn’t want to stop. He wants this out of him as soon as possible, and Steve will help him.

_Nine. One._

Sam sings into the megaphone, horribly and hilariously off-key. It's only funny for a moment, because Bucky passes out just after.

—

Another dose of the serum. Bucky is sluggish in his answers. He seems dazed. They continue on. They go in order this time, and make it all the way to _furnace_ before Bucky twitches, fisting hair in his hands.

Steve doesn’t care — he wraps his arms around him and praises him, presses kisses to his hot skin. He's coming _so far_. Bucky exhales.

—

Steve starts telling stories, works the words into them. Bucky looks so conflicted when Steve talks about that Fourth of July they spent on their roof, the first after they moved into their apartment, and he hears _rusted_. He doesn't react physically in any way, save for the furrow to his brows and purse to his lips.

Sam doesn’t give him time to dwell on it, and claps loudly in his face. He cackles at Bucky's expression. Steve thinks he's getting too much enjoyment out of his role in this. But they're progressing, and Steve won't do anything to risk that. He starts another story.

—

One day, they're in Steve's (their) room, and Bucky asks. So Steve holds him close, whispers each word calmly, kisses him firm and sweet between them. Trails warm fingers over Bucky's scalp. Bucky is silent, but his body isn’t tense. He's perfectly still. Five minutes pass before Bucky grins into Steve's collarbone.

—

 _Freight car_ is the hardest. Bucky openly weeps when Steve says it. He sits curled in on himself, shaking and rocking, so _stuck,_ so _desperate_. Steve aches in every way looking at him. He wants to take a break. He wants to touch Bucky, but doesn’t dare. He doesn’t suggest the break, either, even though Bucky needs it.

It takes an hour for Bucky to collect himself, to be ready for Steve to say it again. He shouts, but Steve makes himself say it. Again and again and again. They have to get past this; they _will_ get past this.

Bucky walks away when they're done, doesn’t come back to Steve for three hours.

—

Bucky says they weren't as powerful, anyways, because Steve was saying them. He thanks Steve everyday, even though Steve tells him he doesn't have to. Bucky knows this but. He says he needs it. Steve doesn’t ask why.

—

_Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight Car._

Bucky grins, and nearly topples Steve over with the force he throws himself at him. Steve kisses him hard.

—

Bucky makes them do it for another week, just to be sure. Out of order, in order, _Soldat?_ after. Nothing. Not once.

Steve _beams._

—

Sam pretends he still needs to make jokes at Steve's expense for Bucky's benefit. Steve doesn't mind all that much, even when Bucky joins in, because they're bonding, and Bucky is _happy_. Happy and _free._ Steve would do anything to keep it this way.

—

There are still nightmares, of course, but Steve's no stranger to those. Sometimes, Bucky curls into him, breathless and startled, letting Steve run soothing fingers over his hair and place gentle kisses to his forehead; he's out like a light those nights.

Other nights.

Well.

—

It gets better. In all senses. Bucky is eating nutritiously; is learning new things about himself, about the world. He spends ample time outside, letting the sun wash over his face. Steve draws him like this: peaceful and serene; human.

He remembers so much, and Steve doesn’t take it for granted. Listens intently whenever Bucky launches into a story that finds its way to the forefront of his mind, talking animatedly and intrigued. Steve loves those moments.

There are far more good nights and days than bad nights and days. And there is no more fear.

Bucky only carries two knives on him, now.

—

"We took the liberty of doing a scan on your arm while you were asleep," T'Challa informs Bucky. Buhari presents an image of Bucky's back, next to a left side profile. There is glaring red where the metal meets skin, and on his back, where the metal tears at the muscle and bone. The nerves are an angry orange. Steve coils.

"Bucky…" but he doesn’t continue. Bucky seems determined to not focus on that, any of that blatant _pain_ , and Steve bites his tongue. He holds Bucky's hand. _So close._

"Now," T'Challa continues, stepping closer to the images, "we can provide you with the new limb without surgery, if you prefer. However, we would like to recommend it, as it would afford the opportunity for this to heal." He gestures to all the discoloration. "We would replace the old, ah, port, attached to the muscles of your shoulder with something much more comfortable, and not as worn."

Bucky processes this. "And how long would that all take? With the surgery?"

Soyinka speaks first. "Well, first we would remove the current port, then we would allow your body to heal itself, which we imagine shouldn't take long. After that, we'll attach the Vibranium arm and let it react with your nerves and body, run some tests to calibrate and assure complete fusion. It shouldn't take more than a week." He smiles friendly and sure, and Steve feels Bucky relax marginally next to him.

"Okay."

—

"You ready?"

Bucky nods, back pressed to Steve's front. He tilts his head back. Steve runs his fingers through his hair. He finds he likes it long.

The surgery is tomorrow. Bucky flexes his hand before thrumming the fingers on his thighs. He feels calm against Steve, though, and that's all Steve can ask for. He presses his lips to Bucky's temple.

"Good."

—

He spends three days with a cloth wrapped thickly around where his left shoulder should be. He stumbles a little, when he walks or stands, but he's strong. Stable. And Steve is there for him to lean on, always.

—

He's tense before the second surgery. Steve massages the taut muscle, smiling when Bucky doesn't wince when Steve's fingers knead over his left side. Bucky already said it felt phenomenally better, which is a gift in itself; he never mentioned anything about the effects his arm had on his body before. Steve lets his fingers trail along Bucky's skin behind the press of his lips.

—

It goes well. Really well. So well Bucky's fucking grinning at the thing, staring at it with wonder in his eyes as they go through the calibration. He looks so _happy_.

Sam claps a hand on his back. He's glad for him, too, Steve sees. He's gotten over what happened in DC. And Berlin. And whatever other thing was between them. Bucky goes to Sam for things often; sometimes Steve finds them talking together outside, or holed away in the palace's entertainment room, watching some show or sitting in amiable silence reading. Bucky read a lot in the past month they were here. Between training sessions it would help relax his mind, and let him catch up. It reminds Steve of when Bucky pored over _The Hobbit_ for nearly three days straight until he finished. And then he tossed the book at Steve, demanding he read it. It passed between them like that for a couple of years, cover cracked and curled, pages rumpled; he can't remember who was reading it last before they shipped out.

"He's strong," Sam comments, looking over at him now, palm flat in T'Challa's to test the potency and sensitivity. Bucky's whole body is glowing.

Steve nods. Yeah, yeah he is.

—

Natasha calls him. She doesn’t comment when he clearly begins to answer the phone with a "To —." Steve is grateful for it.

She lets him know she has her new cover figured out, but she doesn’t plan on leaving Bed-Stuy anytime soon. Steve smiles. She tells him everyone else is safe, they figured something out. Turns out the Accords aren't really being enforced after everything, after the fallout; the failure. Ross is too busy trying to scramble everything back in place, the other signing countries aren't interested in spending their own funding on searching for people in hiding, people who are not bothering them or their civilians, and Tony apparently isn't too inclined on assisting with round-ups. Steve smiles at that, too. He doesn't — he can't call him.

Steve hates that they went through all of this, only for it all to seem not to matter in the end. Well, that's a lie. None of them were really fighting about the Accords anyways. It was so much more. And Steve — he should call him. But he can't. Every time he thinks about it all he sees is Tony's face beneath his, beaten and bloodied; without the mask. So Steve doesn’t let himself think about it.

He tells her he's with Bucky and that he's better, and she's smart enough to figure they're in Wakanda. He's not worried about it, he knows she won't tell as likely as it will be for someone to get her to reveal the information. She wishes them good luck, and promises she'll help in any way she can if need be; that she's just a phone call away. Steve thanks her and hangs up.

Guilt still coils in his chest but he feels lighter, somehow. Relieved, in a way. Things are… recovering. They're all recovering. Bucky's recovering. _Steve's_ recovering.

—

Bucky stumbles some again, but Steve knows he doesn't mind, not at all. His back is upright, yet his shoulders are relaxed, and his stride is light and solid. It's like he's back in the '30s, on his way to tell Steve he saved a couple of bucks up for a trip to Coney Island.

And he's affectionate. Openly drapes himself over Steve's body, holds his hand over the table, kisses him because he can. And that's what's different from before the war. They can _do_ that. They can be in love in public and not get stoned. Bucky seems hellbent on these public displays, tugging Steve close, reminding themselves and everybody else that they can, that they _are._ Of course, it would probably be better if these people weren't limited to the small portion of the Wakandan population they're exposed to. But Bucky doesn’t seem to care. And Steve doesn’t mind.

—

The metal arm makes the bedroom far more interesting.

—

They decide to leave. It's a risk, but they can't stay. Bucky needs to explore. They all need to get out of here. Sam became restless a few weeks ago, but they both kept it silent for Bucky's sake.

It isn’t until Bucky lays himself in Steve's lap one day while he's sketching and declares that he's bored, that they make plans to leave. Bucky was always the antsier of the two of them; always ready to pain the town red, or something of the sort. He knows Bucky's not expecting anything similar now, obviously, but it still tugs at Steve's heartstrings a little — all those similarities between this century and the last, even though things are astronomically different.

They're going to travel to a safe house of course, but it's the different environment that compels them.

T'Challa says he understands, and assures that they're always welcome back, should they need it. He tells Steve to keep the phone.

"Thank you," Bucky says, metal fingers laced through his flesh ones. He looks like he wants to say more, but is struggling with it. Luckily, T'Challa nods.

"Of course. You have been a pleasure to get to know, Barnes." The authenticity seeps from his words, and Bucky flushes. The apology for all that transpired all those months ago is clear in his answer as well.

—

Steve asks for T'Challa's help one last time before they leave.

The scanned images from Steve's sketchbook hit the Internet by surprise, a plethora of positive comments flying in in under eight hours.

They're on the jet by then, of course, but Steve glows when he shows Bucky. Tears well in Bucky's eyes, and Steve pulls him close.

Sam pretends to gag from the front of the plane. "Old saps."

But Steve sees the smile he tries to hide.

—

Three times he got Bucky back.

He doesn’t plan on letting that number change.

— _fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> if u disagreed with my characterization or explanations pls feel free to tell me i am open to comments opinions and improvement :)


End file.
